


For the Sake of Art

by Lady_Phenyx



Series: Whumptober 2019 [22]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, Good Parent Joxaren | The Joxter, Kidnapping, Protective Joxaren | The Joxter, Snusmumriken | Snufkin Has Paws and a Tail, ask to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-23 17:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21084860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Phenyx/pseuds/Lady_Phenyx
Summary: A new artist has come to Moomin Valley, seeking inspiration and muses. And he's sure he's found his new muses - in the form of Snufkin and Joxter.Except they aren't feeling very cooperative about modeling for him. Actually, they'd rather he left them alone, thank you.It seems he's going to have to take desperate measures.Whumptober Day 18: Muffled Scream





	For the Sake of Art

Ever since the summer of painters of Moomin Valley, that strange week when there had been a landscape painting contest based off Moominpappa's accidental photo, it had become a popular place for artists who needed a bit of inspiration to go to, to take the sea air and the lovely views.

Though it had dropped off – there simply wasn't room for that many artists at once, like there had been for that one week when a person couldn't go three feet without seeing another artist – there still were the occasional artists wandering about.

Most of the residents were glad of it – the artists had disrupted their routines, kept Snufkin from fishing, kept them from going about their business.

Oh, they still had one or two around most of the spring and summer and autumn, but that was fine. It added a little flavor to the valley.

Not that the Valley was lacking flavor as it was, just...well.

As long as they didn't overrun the Valley they had that week, they could easily welcome poets and artists to spend time with them.

So far, they had nearly all been interested in landscapes or surrealism, occasionally dabbling in including people in their paintings. Little wonder, when one looked around Moomin Valley. It was filled with beauty everywhere one turned, the residents could be forgiven for being more than a little proud of their home.

This latest painter wasn't interested in landscapes. Oh, he'd been sent here to try and find interest in them, and he couldn't argue that Moomin Valley had some quite lovely views.

But the people were much more lovely to look at.

With his old muse having abandoned him, he hoped that he might find a new one here. Perhaps even two or three, if he were feeling greedy or particularly lucky.

There were so many flavors to choose from! How could he choose, or choose just one, with so many tempting ones spread out before him?

There was Mrs. Fillyjonk – so stiff, so snobbish, so proper. She wasn't for him, not his proper muse, but a painting of her could still be quite the interesting diversion.

Snorkmaiden was a lovely young lady, and he could see quite a few paintings he would enjoy with her as the focus, but she wasn't his muse. Not like he hoped for. And yet still, he would appreciate the opportunity.

The Moomins...there was potential. Such potential. Moominpappa, so proper appearing, with his top hat and cane, but so excitable at times, as excitable as a child. Moominmamma, whose kindness shone out of her like a light, gentle and smiling and wonderful. And their son, whose exuberance and love of life shone in every line. Capturing the different shades of white in their fur would be a worthy challenge.

But they still weren't the muse he was looking for. So many people he wanted to paint, and yet none that gave him that spark he was looking for.

He was taking tea with Moominpappa on the veranda when voices came from the bridge, on their way towards Moomin House.

And the artist froze, staring in wonder at the sight before him.

Next to Moomin walked a mumrik, a vagabond by the clothing the artist would guess.

And oh, the potential there. That spark, that said this could be the one.

The artist kept quiet, listening with pleasure to the soft voice as the vagabond offered Moominmamma some fish, was gently convinced to stay and help prepare them and eat with the rest of them.

He blinked back into the present moment as he was introduced to the vision – Snufkin, what a unique name for such an equally unique creature – and managed to hide his reaction.

At least, he thought so, but Little My was watching him suspiciously.

“Oh, I'm sorry, what was that?” he asked, suddenly realizing he'd been asked a question.  
  


“It seems we'll be having an impromptu party tonight, as Snufkin and Little My's family will be coming by. Will you be joining us?” Moominpappa repeated patiently.

The artist glanced back over at Snufkin, who had perched on the railing, one foot on it while the other dangled, his hands clasped over his knee, and felt his hands itching for his paints. “I wouldn't miss it,” he said fervently.

\---XXX---

The artist hid around the back of Moomin House, clutching at the shirt over his heart.

Oh, sweet muses, how kind they were!

Snufkin could play the mouth organ and guitar, and beautifully, the soft lights shining on his hair and dancing eyes, even more beautiful now than he'd been before.

And those parents of his!

Mymblemamma, so joyful, so big, she and Moominmamma together...the inspirations were rising quickly at the sight of them talking and laughing happily together.

And the oldest sister, Mymble...so soft, so lovely.

And the Joxter...the artist had thought his heart might stop at the sight of that dark hair and sharp blue eyes, eyes that went so soft when he looked at his family. A second muse!

And they would be staying a few days! At least, Joxter would be, Mymble lived nearby all year round. Mymblemamma would only be staying a few days, as she had too many children to subject everyone to them for long.

She obviously loved them, but had also sometime come to the conclusion that they were a bit much for other people, including Joxter and Snufkin, the latter of whom was going to stay to be with his son for a bit.

Oh, the artist regretted every bit of resistance he'd shown towards coming to Moomin Valley.

\---XXX---

“He's watching us again,” Joxter said. He didn't move from where he was laid out, next to his son, both of them lying back on the grass with their hats covering their faces as Snufkin's line trailed in the water.

“Moominpappa says he's an artist,” Snufkin said, voice muffled by his hat.

Joxter gave a hum. “I don't like him watching us, but I don't feel like getting up,” he said.

Snufkin hummed back. “Same.”

\---XXX---

The artist set his latest painting against the wall and looked around the rooms he had set up as a studio in the small cottage he was using.

He hadn't painted so much in a year.

But he needed more.

These all had been done at a distance, and both Snufkin and Joxter were being difficult about sitting for him.

Snufkin had been uncomfortable and dodged the question, while Joxter had laughed, saying the artist could paint him while he slept if he wanted but Joxter had no real interest in being a subject. Ask him again later, maybe he'd change his mind then.

It was so frustrating! Neither of them seemed to understand the importance of Art, the compliment they were being given in being asked to sit for him, to be his muses.

It was more than just a portrait he wanted to paint. Oh, he had so many ideas, scenarios and themes to create, but he needed them to pose for him to make it happen!

Just asking in front of a crowd wasn't going to work – Joxter laughed it off, and Snufkin hid in his hat and ran, beating a swift retreat as the crowd stared at them. Snufkin wasn't seen again for almost a week, and the artist found himself the recipient of a gentle but stern lecture from Moominmamma about putting people on the spot like that to manipulate them into doing something.

...he was going to have to take drastic measures.

\---XXX---

Joxter had forebodings about this whole thing, but he was going along with it.

He hadn't seen Snufkin all day, and somehow, he had a feeling this painter was mixed up in it. It was an irrational feeling, so he kept it mostly to himself.

Snufkin went off by himself at times, he knew it. But...Joxter didn't usually have this foreboding about it.

He let Little My know what was happening. She would have wiggled it out of him anyway, and she was one of the few sneaky enough to find out what was going on if his forebodings were accurate, in Joxter's opinion.

So Joxter was letting the painter 'talk' him into coming down for tea, with Little My knowing where he was going, and knowing to come looking if he wasn't back by morning.

A bit much, considering who he was? Maybe, but he'd only gotten to meet his son recently, and between the protectiveness he felt over all the 'children' and his forebodings, well...

He didn't see any sign of Snufkin in the front room, but he could smell his son, somewhere nearby, and though Joxter tried to pretend to be as relaxed as ever he was waiting, on edge.

The tea was served, and Joxter absently drained his cup as the artist prattled on about getting Joxter to pose for him.

A wave of dizziness washed over Joxter, and he paused, a hand to his head. What was...?

The artist went quiet, watching Joxter intently as he stood. “What did you...” Joxter slurred.

He stumbled, sliding down to the floor. The artist stood, looking down at him, before kneeling.

“I'm sorry, but you were being so difficult,” the artist said, sounding honestly distraught. Everything was fuzzy, and Joxter felt himself being picked up and carried.

Everything happened through a fog, one he couldn't remember, and he blinked back to full consciousness some time later, wincing at the faint headache that lingered.

He blinked a few times, jerking as he realized his hands were bound behind his back, around the wooden stake pressing against his back, with more rope wrapped around his waist binding him to it, and someone had changed his clothes into some sort of costume, some sort of draped, sleeveless dress with high slits exposing most of his legs while he was out of it.

Snufkin was kneeling near to him, his clothes also exchanged for a nearly identical draped costume and bound to a stake, just as Joxter was. Their stakes were angled so they would be at a three quarter angle to whoever stood at the easel set up in front of them – a perfect set up for modeling a painting.

Joxter felt a flare of rage at the sight of the tears streaking his son's cheeks.

“What's going on?” he hissed. “You...”

Snufkin took a deep breath and answered equally quietly. “A moment of weakness, that's all. I'm fine. But he's lost it,” he said. “He's been painting us all over Moomin Valley, and he just finished this, something about staging out a scene from something.” Snufkin tried to smile, weak around at the edges. “At least this one's better than the last, before you got here.” He swallowed. “We have to get out of here. He went for a new canvas.”

Joxter glanced around the room. They were in front of a backdrop and props, and there were canvases all along the room, stacked along the wall to dry.

Quite a few were of him and Snufkin, at various places around the valley, mostly sleeping or fishing.

But there was one, a new one, the paint still obviously tacky to the touch, that made a quick surge of rage wash over him.

It was Snufkin, in another costume, on his back on a bed draped with white, sheer fabric and enough flowers to make it seem like some sort of garden. His arms were thrown over his head and the artist had been careful not to paint the ropes, but Joxter could guess just where they'd been to hold Snufkin in that position.

Little wonder Snufkin had a 'moment of weakness'. Joxter snarled and hoped Little My got impatient, or he might do something they'd all regret, something inappropriate for Moomin Valley.

The artist entered the room, carrying supplies. “Ah, good, you're awake,” he said. “Though I do have a few ideas you could sleep through, they would be much more convincing...ah, well. Later, perhaps.”

He pulled a few things from his pile and walked over to them. “Now, this is a very serious scene, the capture of Kaede and his son. Have you heard of it? I could tell it to you while I work, if you'd like. You're perfect for the part, both of you. I knew you'd both be perfect muses the moment I saw you. Hold still, stop wiggling now, this is important for the scene!”

He leaned over Snufkin, ignoring Joxter's snarling and Snufkin's struggles.

Joxter felt cold rage like he'd never felt in his life when the artist leaned back, holding Snufkin's chin and tilting his face to see the effect of his handiwork.

A gag, silencing Snufkin and wrapped around to be as much aesthetic as effective, and a blindfold covering his eyes, stark white against his skin.

“You're even prettier crying, and it's perfect for this scene,” he said, still holding Snufkin's chin, almost as if he thought it was a compliment.

Satisfied and highly pleased with the effect, the artist turned his attention to Joxter and faltered as those cold, furious eyes pinned him.

“You have no right to do this to us, and you can't hold us long,” Joxter said, voice cold and level. “There is going to be reckoning for this.” The artist hesitated before his eyes hardened.

“It's for Art,” he said, gagging Joxter the same as he had Snufkin. “You don't understand. Art is immortal. There is nothing in this world more important than Art. It is the one thing that drives us all together, and we have to obey its demands, whatever they may be. You'll understand, someday. You have to. When you see what I've painted.” He sounded nearly desperate for them to understand, groping for the words to explain. “The two of you...there's so many here that need to be immortalized on canvas, but you're special.”

He stood and returned to his canvas. “Now, don't move,” he said. “If you do, you'll ruin the lighting. This will be much easier for everyone if you simply cooperate.”

\---XXX---

Joxter's knee was a point of fire, and the rest of his leg had gone numb. That was still better than the other leg, whose calf was cramping painfully hard.

Suddenly there were footsteps, and the blindfold dropped from Joxter's eyes. He blinked, shaking out of the faint trance he'd fallen into as he endured, watching as the artist took Snufkin's blindfold as well.

He untied Snufkin's from the ropes holding him to the stake, but Snufkin's legs shook as he tried to stand, and the artist had to pick him up and carefully laid him in a fainting couch that stood nearby.

Joxter was in the same state, and the artist fretted as he rubbed at their legs, an action Joxter wanted to protest but which still eased the pain. And he was still gagged, anyway, making protesting anything difficult save for a lashing tail.

Snufkin's said he was in a similar mood, if more frightened than his father but still more furious than Joxter had seen him before.

The artist stood, still fretting, dithering over whether he should remove the gags. “I can't untie you yet,” he said, wringing his hands. “You'd never stay and model for me. You don't understand. Oh, but I hate to see you gagged...but if I do you'll yell. They were just supposed to be for the painting, it's part of the scene you see, but...”

His face hardened. “One more painting tonight, then we can have supper, and once you've seen what I've created you'll understand. Even if I have to take drastic measures to make it happen. It...it'll be worth it. It will. You have to understand.”

He rushed over to the set and began dismantling it. Joxter and Snufkin looked at each other and Joxter squirmed.

His claws couldn't get a grip in the ropes, he couldn't reach them good enough – and neither could Snufkin, it seemed, or neither of them would have been here as long as they had.

And he couldn't get at Snufkin's ropes to claw at those. He would have run for it, but his legs were still painful, enough that Joxter could tell they would give out from under him if he tried to run.

The scene of the dungeon and stakes cleared, the artists bustled about his props, murmuring to himself.

From the things he was muttering, he really did have quite a few ideas he wanted to paint – and it didn't matter anymore that Joxter and Snufkin weren't willing.

Though a few of them sounded rather difficult to do when the subjects had to be tied up in order to get them to cooperate.

It was almost a pity – there was talent there, and if he'd been a little more patient, Joxter, at least, might have been persuaded to sit for him. And there would have been ways to get around Snufkin's ill ease at being the center of attention and stared at to get him to model...just get Moomin or Snorkmaiden in on it.

The artist paused, looking them over. “I know, there's a few other scenes that need those costumes, we can do those first...”

Someone knocked at the door.

The artist froze, and Joxter and Snufkin went still, pricking up and listening.

A voice was yelling outside, arguing, faint but growing louder through the cottage's thick walls. Little My!

Beside Joxter, Snufkin drew in a deep, deep breath.

And _screamed._

Snufkin was so quiet, everyone was caught off guard when he chose to be loud. It wasn't easy for him to be loud, it usually caught in his throat and refused to come out, but today, it rang out, only partially muffled by the gag, wordless and, above all, loud.

The artist panicked, frantically trying to shush Snufkin. Beside him, Joxter took up the screams, and unlike his son, Joxter knew how to be loud when he wanted. The sound didn't stick in his throat, didn't choke him.

He was good at it.

It seemed to take ages between the time they began screaming and the sound of the door splintering as it was ripped from its hinges, heard in a pause as both mumriks had to gasp for air.

Then all was noise and confusion as people rushed into the back room.

The Inspector tackled the artist, who was yelling and protesting, while Moominmamma and Moomin, Snorkmaiden and Moominpappa, hurried to untie Joxter and Snufkin.

There was a yelp from the artist, and Joxter glanced over to see that Little My had indeed bit him and was hanging on.

Moominmamma fussed over father and son equally, while Joxter was pleased to see how protectively Snorkmaiden and Moomin worried over his son (only momentarily distracted by his costume and decidedly keeping their eyes on his face once his wrists were looked over, trying not to look though their eyes occasionally drifted to dangerous areas. The way they snapped their eyes back up and all three blushed boded well in Joxter's opinion).

\---XXX---

Joxter and Snufkin's clothes were found neatly folded on a chest by the door, and they retreated to the artist's bedroom to change while he was taken off to the jail by the Inspector.

Joxter noticed Snufkin debating something, looking at the costume he held. Joxter caught his eye and winked, stuffing the costume into his bag.

Snufkin looked away, but not before Joxter caught the smile and twitching of his tail, and stowed his in his own pack.

There were bad memories associated with them right now, but Joxter, at least, intended on making a few new ones with Mymble later.

\---XXX---

It took a little time, a full day of rest at Moomin House, before Joxter made his way to the Police Station, hardly able to believe he was actually going to one of his own free will.

Snufkin met him partway, and they walked in silence for a bit.

“He needs help,” Snufkin finally said.

Joxter nodded in agreement. “Think they'll get him some?”

“If we say something. This Inspector wants to do the right thing.”

\---XXX---

The two spoke with the Inspector – or, to be more precise, Snufkin spoke with the Inspector while Joxter leaned against the wall and put in a word or two when he felt it was necessary.

They were both still furious, but...

Assurances made, the two left, happy to be out of the station and to not have to think about this for awhile.

\---XXX---

Two years later, a letter came for Snufkin and Joxter, 'In care of the Moomin Family, for lack of other address'.

Inside was a letter from the artist who had once kidnapped them, containing the most sincere apology any of them had ever read.

Along with a request to return to Moomin Valley for the summer, with the understanding that he may not be welcome and if so, he understood.

Snufkin and Joxter disappeared for a few hours before returning and agreeing to let him come back. With reservations and restrictions, of course – an apology was one thing, showing he had changed another.

They were all wary of him at first, but after a month he had proven himself changed and repentant.

Enough so that this time, they all modeled for him, and willingly.

It was some of his best work.


End file.
